Soliloquy
by manic-intent
Summary: Was challenged to write something that would cause readers to feel some sympathy for Rizzen Do'Urden, just for fun.


Title: Soliloquy

Author: Anya al'Nighter

Email: anyasy@yahoo.com

Spoilers: A few, but they'd be hard to catch unless you've read the books.  I hope.

Summary: Another monologue.  I think the drama exams are catching up with me.

Note: I meant to write something very short about Rizzen, out of amusement, to change the general feeling of dislike people have towards his character – just to see if I can – but it seems that this piece is a bit too… rambling.  Possibly because I'm currently bored. 

Disclaimer: Rizzen, The Forgotten Realms and all associated characters here are owned by TSR and R.A. Salvatore, not used here for profit.  I want chocolate, however, so all those nice people who want to feed a hungry author can mail me some… especially if they're Swiss or Belgian chocolates.

--

            I know this sounds stale, like the stories of miracles performed by _Yathallar_ that They like to spread around (do They know, after the sixteenth time you hear of a story wherein a _Yathallar_ massacres a few hundred Vhaerun _shebalin_, or changes water into bloody good wine, it loses its novelty?), but I am _not _what I seem.  

            Now, you turn your face away, you ignore my words, you think I try to trick or delude you.  Perhaps I am! Or I would wish I could.  That is my problem, you see – oh, now you think I am just _elg'carin_ like the sorry male I look like.  Or am.  Sometimes I think whatever I say never gets through, never actually gets absorbed, because that's what I realize people do when someone talks too much, they tune them out, become oblivious, until you might as well just try asking the Arch Mage Gromph for his spider mask than try to get them to understand.  But I like words – I like the way they taste when you form them in your mouth, all the spectrum of nuances, and the meanings… that is another of my problems as well.

            I like to talk too much.  I repeat this because you may have lost my point while trying to follow what I wrote above, or you may have skipped it.  I find that when creatures read they tend to ignore what comes after the first sentence, unless they have a true interest in it.  Perhaps because it would bore them – what is so interesting about my ramblings, in any case? Why do you read this? Is Lloth herself hovering above you, ready to strike if you turn away? Go away then!

            Or continue.  You must forgive me my anger.  It is not often that I allow myself the luxury of such a feast of words.  The role of a patron is best illustrated in the following exchange between myself and the 'beloved' Matron, Queen of the House, nose so high in the air I sometimes wonder whether that is why the ceilings are always so polished:

            "Most honoured Matron Mother, may I speak with you about… "

            "Take off your clothes.  Now."

            And with that amazingly sensitive, verbose command, you can probably understand my position.  There is no use wasting my time with these kind of inconsiderate creatures.  Let me cite, for example, another dialogue (I use the word 'dialogue' here in the loosest sense of the word) between myself and the House Weapon Master, who must have perfected that contemptuous sniff after hours of mirror practice:

            "Weapon Master Zaknafein, could you… "

            "Get the _vith_ out of my way."

            See? And it was no small feat getting close enough to speak with him either.  As it turned out, what I did want to talk with him about was information that I found that could shame Briza out of the House, with his help, but did he even begin to listen? No.  Do not accuse me of not being persistent – later I did manage to get him to hear some of it, but his reaction, on hindsight, was predictable.

            "Shut the _vith_ up."

            Where was I? Ah yes, my main problem.  Unlike most other drow of noticeable intelligence, I cannot connive, scheme, lie, cheat – you get the idea – on my own initiative.  This trait, the last I heard, is somewhat of a virtue on the Surface worlds, but here, it is seen as a failure.  Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised about that, but there you go.  I do not mean ordinary, small-time schemes that have great opportunity just waiting for any fool to come along and manipulate it – like that Briza incident – but schemes that you start from scratch.  There have been literature written about the joy of cunning and the satisfaction gained from the culmination, but I have been unable to experience it.  

            Can you understand the sorrow? Perhaps not – perhaps you cannot, will not sympathize with me, but it is as though everyone else, including the lowliest scullion, has some glorious ability they take for granted, such as the power of understanding what they see, and I… am blind.

            An exaggeration, you say? Then you do not understand the nature of the dark elves.  One's intelligence is judged on how malevolently devious one can be, not on how one can come up with ways, say, to prevent wars from happening, achieve universal peace – those sort of values that Surfacers tend to value, amusingly enough.  Admittedly, it is a better gauge of intelligence, since in my opinion – and the opinion of most sentient creatures, I am sure – the latter two gauges can only be achieved if one has an appropriately large and skilled army.  

            That is precisely why I am not what I seem.  Females are the dominant side of the species, and we are certainly taught since young that it should always be this way and has always will be.  Perhaps this is a generalization, but they only like a few types of males – the powerful type, preferably with some element of danger, evil or the forbidden; the skilled type – in what area I am sure you can imagine – and the powerful rogues.  Do you see the repeating theme here? Power.  Skill, the appropriate types of skills, are a type of power here, placing the second type on par with the other two.  As to all the other males of types in between – looks and obedience are characteristics that females easily tire of.  They are all addicted to the thrill that the other three supposedly provide.  

            So to survive – in my case, one has to change.  Power – mage males wield somewhat more power in general than warriors, not to mention I happen to be inept at weaponry – and evil, an easy enough attitude to learn and wear, like some favoured type of clothing that one always wears.  Occasionally one would tire of it, but here, for survival, one must always put it on.  My magic, however, is mediocre in its range and ability, more for appearance.  The Matron never lets me forget that, with reminders of the House Mage before me. 

            The Matron Mother, however, seems to perversely enjoy disobedience, even though she openly describes (in graphic terms) what she would do to those who behave that way.  I have never had the courage to go against her wishes.  Zaknafein, however – does, though possibly not for that reason – he is, however, inscrutable.  Sometimes I hate him for that annoying pride he possesses, that stubborn will that would resist the wishes of _Yathallar_.  Other times – grudging admiration is perhaps the best term for it.  

            Envy, you say? Most probably.  I am always intensely aware of myself – I know my failures and my successes, my… ah, I wander again.

            I wonder why I am telling this.  Perhaps it is because of the knowledge that some day, when the Matron's will changes and I die – killed perhaps by my son, or my daughter, or even Zaknafein – there will be nothing left to remember me – wiped off the world with the rag of chance.  I wish to die eventually – the gates of death are closed to some of the previous patrons.  Their fate is terrible to watch – especially the one of Briza's father.  Her relationship with him now is scandalous, even in dark elven standards, I would think.  There is something about dark elves which perverts affection – the Matron Mother once deigned to release some information to me once on Briza: that the only male she ever had feelings in the forbidden direction for was her father.  

A handsome, accomplished warrior, apparently – Zaknafein's predecessor.  He says nothing about that patron's fate – but he knows what that patron represents: the fact that the role of a weapon master will not save him, eventually, from the will of the Matron.

            The actions of snivelling obedience are necessary for my survival.  That is what dark elves share, regardless of what the Priestesses may think – the bone-deep, burning desire to survive, to live, even when driven from the light into the darkness, corrupted in dungeons of stone by one's own kin, something always prevents us from taking our own lives or causing us to die.  Perhaps because when we do die, it is said, we will descend to the Abyss to Lloth's side… but I do not believe that to be the reason, for males, at least.

            Now as a nominal noble it is hard to remember what it was like to be a commoner.  Tales of the hardship they suffer are well known, but they are freer than the nobles, unlikely as that may sound.  Power places restrictions on those who would wield it… and a host of other emotions that would cloud one's judgement.  

            Today the Matron called Zaknafein to her, and I know what that would mean, for I have seen it before.  This time, however, I felt a sense of chilliness, as if some hand with freezing fingers swept over my neck.  A premonition of something to come. 

            Mages can sometimes experience another, emblematic sense.  Then I heard the sound of beating wings growing gradually louder, as if from many years ahead, and I, suddenly understanding, took up my staff and walked towards it.

Rizzen Do'Urden

Ilharn d'Qu'ellar Do'Urden 

--

Translations and Notes:

_Yathallar_: High Priestess of Lloth

_Shebalin_: Rogue drow (plural)

_Elg'carin_: Whining

Sound of beating wings: Used this phrase before in an earlier story – 'The Story Behind Her eyes', I believe the title is called (can't remember. Oops).  Those who read Neil Gaiman's Sandman will probably be familiar with it – the symbolic 'sound' of Death's approach or passage.

Ilharn d'Qu'ellar Do'Urden: Patron of House (noble) Do'Urden 


End file.
